Long-haired freaky people need not apply.
I’ve been looking for signs lately. Not bleeding Madonna-type signs (which, eww); more like optimistic fortunes in my cookies, happily chirping bluebirds on my windowsill in the morning, massive financial inheritances from ancient aunts I never knew exited. I tend to award great significance to the slightest coincidence. If I’m reading a book or magazine and there’s a mention of my hometown or my college, I will always ponder what it means. Which is usually nothing. Sometimes there’s a song on the radio with lyrics that were OBVIOUSLY written totally about me and my life. That’s a sign, right? The other day I was going nuts looking for my keys, pulling open drawers where they absolutely would not be, and I found a card someone had written to me earlier this year. A sign? Was I supposed to call this person? Was this person thinking about me? Why did I open this drawer in the first place? It must have been destiny!!! I’ve been thinking about someone lately, and, again, seemingly by coincidence, I’ve driven by that person no fewer than FOUR times this week. WHAT DOES IT MEAN??? Crap, probably. I’m manufacturing my own lens of reality. Engaging in an exercise of existential torture.
I did manage to come across something this morning that has not yet unveiled its long-term significance, but has definitely made me bounce around the office a little bit. And these days, that’s a good sign. Turn it up.